UC-NRLF 


*m 


T45S 


Thanks  are  due  the  editors  of  Harper's 
Magazine,  The  Century  Magazine,  Scrib- 
ner's  Magazine,  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
and  The  New  York  Sun,  in  which  publi 
cations  these  poems  originally  appeared, 
for  their  kind  permission  to  reprint.  The 
poems  Vos  Non  Vobis,  The  Voice  of  the 
Laws,  and  The  Triumph  of  Forgotten 
Things  are  reprinted  from  volumes  pub 
lished  in  1896,  1903,  and  1905. 


THE    FLOWER    FROM    THE 
ASHES  AND  OTHER  VERSE 

BY    EDITH    M    THOMAS 


PORTLAND    MAINE 

THOMAS     BIRD     MOSHER 

MDCCCCXV 


COPYRIGHT 
EDITH    M    THOMAS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  FLOWER  FROM  THE  ASHES  .  3 
THOUGHT-DRIFT     .       .       .       .11 

"FROST  TO-NIGHT"       ...  12 

vos  NON  VOBIS        ....  13 

WANDER-LURE             ....  14 

FOOL'S   PARADISE      ....  15 

HIDDEN   HERITAGE             ...  17 

FLIGHT   OF   KRISHNA        ...  19 

HALF-DISCLOSURE      ....  21 

THE  WATER   OF   DIRCE    ...  23 

THE   DARK 25 

THE  UNDERLAND       ....  27 

THE  HOUSE 29 

INCLUSION 31 

"YOU   HAVE  COME   BACK"       .           .  32 
THE     TRIUMPH      OF      FORGOTTEN 

THINGS 33 

THE  OVERFLOW         ....  35 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE   LAWS       .           .  36 

IN  THE  LILAC-RAIN           ...  37 

OLD   SIGHT 39 

THE   PASSER-BY           ....  41 

THE  YOUNG  HEART  IN   AGE  42 


328430 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

EVOE 43 

A  SONG  ABOUT  A  SONG           .          .  45 

THE  GOING  DOWN   ....  47 

SNOW-BURDEN 50 

THE  ONLOOKERS        ....  51 
UWHY      WILT      THOU      VISIT      IN 

DREAMS"               ....  53 

THE  EMPTY   ROOM  ....  55 

FRIENDS  WITH   THE   WORLD  .           .  56 

TO  RETURN 57 

OUT  OF   IT  59 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE  63 


VI 


THE  FLOWER  FROM  THE  ASHES 


Quercetanus,  the  famous  physician  of  King 
Henry  the  Fourth,  tells  us  a  wonderful  story  of  a 
Polonian  doctor  that  showed  him  a  dozen  glasses 
hermetically  sealed  in  each  of  which  was  a  differ 
ent  plant,  for  example,  a  rose  in  one,  a  tulip  in 
another,  a  clove  jilly-flower  in  a  third,  and  so  on 
of  the  rest.  When  he  opened  these  glasses  to 
your  first  view,  you  saw  nothing  in  them  but  a 
heap  of  ashes  in  the  bottom.  As  soon  as  he  held 
some  gentle  heat  under  any  of  them,  presently 
there  arose  out  of  those  ashes  the  idea  of  a 
flower  and  the  stalk  belonging  to  those  ashes, 
and  it  would  shoot  up  and  spread  abroad  to  the 
due  height  and  just  dimensions  of  such  a  flower, 
and  perfect  colour,  shape,  magnitude  and  all  other 
accidents,  as  if  it  really  were  that  very  flower. 
But  when  you  drew  the  heat  from  it,  would  this 
flower  sink  down  by  little  and  little,  till  at  length 
it  would  bury  itself  in  its  bed  of  ashes.  And  thus  it 
would  do  as  often  as  you  exposed  it  to  moderate 
heat,  or  withdraw  it  from  it.  I  confess  it  would 
be  no  small  delight  to  see  this  experiment  with  all 
the  circumstances  that  Quercetan  sets  down. 
Athanasius  Kircharus  at  Rome  assured  me  that 
he  had  done  it,  and  gave  me  the  process  of  it. 
But  no  industry  of  mine  could  effect  it.  —  SIR 
KENHLM  DIGBY  in  his  Discourse  Concerning  the 
Vegetation  of  Plants. 


THE  FLOWER  FROM  THE  ASHES 

An  imagined  conversation  between  QUERCETANUS, 
a  Magician,  and  SIR  KENELM   DIGBY. 

In  the  Laboratory  of  Quercetanus. 


QUERCETANUS 

T  is  a  master-charm  but  few  command. 
(You  own,  no  industry  of  yours  avails, 
And  hence  you  come  to  me.  And  you 

do  well ). 
'T  was  from  a  rare  Polonian  doctor  old, 

Ay,  shrunk  so  far  in  silvery  age  meseemed 

He  was  not  other  than  that  wondrous  ash 

Enshrined  within  the  crystal  phial  slim 

That  in  his  spirit-slender  hand  he  held 

For  demonstration  to  a  few  elect. 

Yet,  like  the  ash  within  that  phial  closed, 


His  fragile  being  housed  a  vital  spark 
That  made  we  Jaroping  splendor  of  his  eyes, 
The  while  he  testified  :  uThis  glass,  behold, 
H&th  Beauty  lapped  in  ashes  —  not  of  death, 
But  of  a  life  prepotent  as  the  seed 
That  overlives  all  Winter's  cruel  scath, 
Biding  the  sign  of  Spring  to  clothe  in  green. 
That  seed  —  't  is  proof  to  frosts  no  summer  shoot 
Could  e'er  withstand ;  so,  even  so  this  drift 
Of  hoary  dust,  shut  in  by  crystal  walls, 
Is  all  alive  —  is  all  invincible!" 

So  spake  that  rare  Polonian  doctor  —  then 
Shot  round  upon  the  drinkers  of  his  lore 
A  smile  half  mockery  —  angelic  half. 
Continuing,  he  caught  his  own  words  up  : 
"But  said  I  'ashes?'  — Nay,  I  see  a  rose!" 
And  then,  to  me,  "You  do  not  see  it  —  no? 
But  do  not  move  your  eyes.     Regard  this  glass, 
Where  even  now  the  restless  life  begins." 

And  then,  as  steadily  1  gazed,  I  saw 

A  greening  stalk  cleave  through  that  drift  of  gray ; 

And  from  the  stalk  shot  balanced  sprays  each  side, 

And  from  the  branches  leaves ;  and  midmost  all 

A  yearning  flame  that  shot  into  a  rose  — 

A  perfect  rose  —  beyond  perfection  here, 

As  if  from  Paradise  that  moment  rapt ! 


SIR   KENELM 

And  was  it  given  you  to  touch  the  flower, 

To  learn  if  flower-like  its  tissues  were, 

Or  if  thin  air  and  flame  its  semblance  gave? 

QUERCETANUS 

I?  —  touch  the  thing  my  master's  art  evoked  ?  — 
Nay,  touched  I  not,  nor  would  I  seek  to  touch  ! 
But  all  that  marvel  fine  was  bloomed  and  shed 
In  but  the  tithe  of  time  that  I  have  used 
To  tell  you  of  it  —  gone  most  utterly. 

SIR   KENELM 
But  in  the  crystal  phial  was  there  nought? 

QUERCETANUS 
Even  the  powdery  drift  was  seen  before. 

SIR  KENELM 

I  pray  you,  may  I  see  that  flower,  myself? 
I  doubt  not,  featly  works  the  charm  for  you, 
Though  failed  the  process  that  was  given  me. 

QUERCETANUS 

A  phial  I  shall  show  you  presently ; 
I  had  it  from  that  rare  Polonian's  hand. 


SIR   KENELM 

What !  nothing  but  a  drift  of  ashes  left 
In  a  dark  phial  —  Rose,  thy  funeral  urn  ! 

QUERCETANUS 

Some  flower-in-ashes  all  men  hoard  away, 
Nor  know  they  hoard  until  a  master's  art 
In  transient  Beauty  bids  it  bloom  again. 


OTHER  VERSE 


THOUGHT-DRIFT 

IM  hour  by  hour  through  autumn's  wane 
The  silkweed  lets  her  plumes  adrift : 
They  rove  —  they  sink  —  and  yet  again 
Upon  the  wavering  breeze  they  lift. 


No  count  is  made  of  where  they  roam ; 
They  are  not  found,  they  are  not  lost,  — 
Soft  wanderers  without  a  home, 
Yet  scathless  to  the  sworded  frost. 

Not  otherwise  dim  hour  by  hour 
I  shed  white  thoughts  into  the  wind,  — 
Sole  drift  of  my  life's  vanished  flower: 
They  are  not  lost  —  yet  none  may  find. 


11 


"FROST  TO-NIGHT" 

A  PPLE-GREEN  west  and  an  orange  bar, 
-*•  ^     And  the  crystal  eye  of  a  lone,  one  star.  .   . 
And,  '*  Child,  take  the  shears  and  cut  what  you  will. 
Frost  to-night  —  so  clear  and  dead-still." 

Then,  I  sally  forth,  half  sad,  half  proud, 
And  I  come  to  the  velvet,  imperial  crowd, 
The  wine-red,  the  gold,  the  crimson,  the  pied,  — 
The  dahlias  that  reign  by  the  garden-side. 

The  dahlias  I  might  not  touch  till  to-night ! 
A  gleam  of  the  shears  in  the  fading  light, 
And  I  gathered  them  all,  —  the  splendid  throng, 
And  in  one  great  sheaf  I  bore  them  along. 


In  my  garden  of  Life  with  its  all-late  flowers 
I  heed  a  Voice  in  the  shrinking  hours  : 
"Frost  to-night  —  so  clear  and  dead-still  .   . 
Half  sad,  half  proud,  my  arms  I  fill. 


12 


VOS  NON  VOBIS 

"^HERE  was  a  garden  planned  in  Spring's  young  days, 
•*•        Then  Summer  held  it  in  her  bounteous  hand, 
And  many  wandered  through  its  blooming  ways, 
But  ne'er  the  one  for  whom  the  work  was  planned. 

And  it  was  vainly  done  — 
For  what  are  many,  if  we  lack  the  one  ? 

There  was  a  song  that  lived  within  the  heart 
Long  time  —  and  then  on  Music's  wing  it  strayed  ! 
All  sing  it  now,  all  praise  its  artless  art, 
But  ne'er  the  one  for  whom  the  song  was  made. 

And  it  was  vainly  done  — 
For  what  are  many,  if  we  lack  the  one  ? 


13 


WANDER-LURE 

TT  was  a  rosy  morning  long  ago. 

•*•     None  was  beside  me  on  the  sleek  gray  sand, 

When,  dabbling  in  the  water's  wrinkling  flow, 

I  something  touched  that  reached  to  kiss  my  hand. 
The  shell,  the  sobbing  shell, 
That  seemed  so  innocent ! 
For  me  it  had  been  well 
If  I  no  heed  had  lent. 

I  drew  it  from  the  rose-lit  water — dim, 

And  sadly  colored  as  a  sunless  sea ; 
But  when  I  laid  my  ear  against  its  brim, 

Its  sweet,  tumultuous  pleadings  conquered  me  ! 
The  shell,  the  sobbing  shell, 

It  moaned  and  would  not  cease  ! 
"Enchanted  here  I  dwell  — 
But  thou  canst  bring  release." 

And  then  it  told  me  with  its  broken  cry 

Where  hidden  cure  for  such  enchantments  lay  — 
Another  shore,  another  sea  and  sky  ! 

To  bring  it  there  I  wandered  night  and  day. 
The  shell,  the  sobbing  shell, 

Still  drives  —  to  east,  to  west ; 
The  spirit  in  its  cell 
It  never  lets  me  rest ! 


14 


FOOL'S  PARADISE 

\\  /E  all  are  gathered  here,  who  else  no 
refuge  had, 

We  all  are  here,  we  Fools,  —  the  sad,  the  glad, 
the  mad, 

So  counted  by  a  world  that  missed  us  never 
more, 

That  fed  us  grudgingly  —  or  starved  us  on  its 
store. 

They  all  are  here, —  those  darling  truants  from 

the  rod, 
Who  learned  no  lesson  save  the  boundless  love 

of  God. 
And  they  are  here,  —  the  laughers  whom  their 

world  frowned  down, 
Who  danced  to  all  the  pipes  that  stray  from 

town  to  town  ! 

And  moody  ones  are  with  us,  —  souls  of  smoul 
dering  fire 

That  blew  alive  and  caught  at  Wrong  in  sud 
den  ire ; 

And  prophet-spirits  mild  whom  none  would 
ever  heed ; 

And  child-like  men  of  might  that  any  child 
could  lead. 


15 


And  those  that  loved,  unloved  —  who  nothing 

else  could  do 

But  spend  their  all  —  O  truest  lovers  of  untrue  ! 
And  those  that  have  gone  mad   for  deathless 

Beauty's  sake, 
Who    winged    her   songful    praise   none   later 

could  awake  ! 

We  are  all  gathered  here,  —  the  sad,  the  glad, 
the  mad.  .  .  . 

God  made  a  Paradise  for  Fools,  and  straight 
forbade 

Its  seraph-guarded  gates  to  all  His  thriftier- 
wise, 

But  He  Himself  oft  walks  with  us  this  Para 
dise- 

L'ENVOI 

Princes,  or  Peasants,  this  to  you  I  send  from 

far: 

Whoe'er  ye  be,  if  so  some  little  ancient  scar 
Ye  bear  in  either  palm,  ye  cannot  be  denied  — 
For  you,  with  golden  sound,  the  garden  gates 

swing  wide. 


16 


HIDDEN  HERITAGE 

I"  AM  not  half  so  poor  as  they 
•*•     Who  have  greath  wealth  but  in  to-day. 
Beneath  this  time  an  undertime, 
My  hidden  heritage  sublime ; 
Beneath  this  world  an  underworld, 
With  mass  and  shards  above  it  hurled. 

I  always  knew  that  it  was  there, 
But  how  descend  it,  how  to  dare  ? 
I  always  knew  my  noontide  draft 
In  its  deep  well  had  darkly  laughed ; 
How  nightly  Sleep,  that  shepherd  sooth, 
There  led  the  dream-flocks  of  my  youth. 

I  knew,  because  each  joy  of  mine 

Had  under-grief  the  more  divine ; 

And,  ah,  because  no  sorrow  pressed 

So  hard  but  that  it  also  blessed  ! 

With  up-sent  dew  my  tears  were  pearled  — 

Beneath  this  world  such  underworld  ! 

I  always  knew  that  it  was  there, 

And  did  this  solid  world  upbear; 

So,  were  I  weak,  its  voices  rose, 

"  Fear  not;  strength  rushes  in  thy  blows." 

And,  were  I  witless  and  unread, 

Some  nether  sun  its  light  upshed. 

17 


I  always  knew,  I  know,  't  is  there ; 
But  how  to  reach  it,  how  to  dare, 
The  shards  that  hide  it  how  upheave, 
And  to  its  heart  full  pathway  cleave, 
As  one  who  must  descend,  not  climb, 
Unto  a  heritage  sublime  ! 


18 


FLIGHT  OF  KRISHNA 


IVben  the  Lord  acquireth  a  body  and  when  he 
abandonetb  it  He  sei^eth  these  (the  senses  and  the 
mind]  and  goeth  with  them,  as  the  wind  takes 
fragrances  from  thtir  retreats.  —  BHAGAVAD  GtTA. 


,  forth,  and  nothing  leave  behind  ! 
For,  going,  even  as  the  wind 
That  taketh  from  its  dim  retreat 
A  flower's  whole  soul  of  fragrance  sweet  — 
So  I  pluck  out  both  sense  and  mind 
And  carry  them  where  none  may  find. 

Yet,  if  I  will,  these  I  may  bind, 
Returning  them  to  forms  inclined  ; 
So  that  again  they  have  their  seat 
In  life's  fair  blossom,  as  is  meet. 
Again,  I  go.     And,  dust  consigned, 
But  dust  is  left,  both  deaf  and  blind  ! 

On,  on  —  and  in  and  out,  I  wind  : 
I,  bearing  with  me  sense  and  mind, 
Shall  see,  shall  hear,  in  life-blood  beat, 
Shall  prove  by  touch,  shall  drink,  shall  eat ; 
But  in  one  moment  —  unconfined  — 
Am  gone,  such  dalliance  left  behind  ! 

19 


Then  where?     No  man  hath  yet  divined. 
But  knoweth  man  where  lives  the  wind 
That  leaveth  bowed  the  blossom  sweet? 
I  go,  with  more  than  winged  feet; 
But  naught  —  not  form  —  have  I  resigned 
This,  too,  in  mine  own  self  is  shrined. 


20 


HALF-DISCLOSURE 


THERE  is  a  crying  in  the  wind  — 
I  do  not  know  what  it  may  be ; 
But  for  the  moment  it  can  find, 
Can  search,  the  heart  of  me. 

There  is  a  signal  in  the  fire  — 
A  flame  beyond  the  violet  flame  ! 

It  wakens  fine  and  far  desire 
For  which  I  have  no  name. 

And  airs  there  are,  so  sweet,  that  rise 

And  flow  from  wolds  where  snow  lies  deep 

Breath  of  the  Flowers  of  Paradise, 
Or  of  the  dreams  of  sleep  ! 

Each  sense  a  subtler  sense  awakes  — 
Wakes  for  an  instant,  and  no  more, 

A  wave  from  far  that,  once  it  breaks, 
Revisits  not  this  shore. 

Such  are  the  intimations  strange 
That  leave  the  soul  unreconciled, 

Lost  from  some  world  of  magic  change 
Wherein  I  dwelt  a  child  — 


21 


A  child  unspoiled  that  nearer  dwelt 
Unto  the  precious  heart  of  things 

Its  throbbing  ( now  too  rarely  felt ) 
This  half-disclosure  brings. 


22 


THE  WATER  OF  DIRCE 


....  Another  comes  and  laments  that  he  shall  no 
longer  drink  of  the  water  of  Dirce.  "7s  the  Mar  dan 
water  worse  than  that  of  Dirce  ?  "  "  But  I  was  used  to 
the  water  of  Dirce."  —  EPICTETUS. 


**TF  but  the  Gods,  of  their  mercy, 
•*•      Would  let  me  return,  ere  I  die, 

To  drink  of  the  water  of  Dirce  — 
On  the  cool  sprinkled  margin  to  lie  ! 

u  Yes,  I  drank  of  the  Marcian  waters, 
Of  Bandusia's  song-haunted  spring ; 

But  not  though  Mnemosyne's  daughters 
The  crystal  of  Helicon  bring  — 

"  Not  they  —  not  the  charm-weaving  Circe 
Could  make  me  forget  or  forego  — 

I  was  used  to  the  water  of  Dirce, 
I  long  for  it,  thirst  for  it  so  ! 

"The  snows  of  Cithaeron  have  chilled  it  — 
I  shall  cease  from  this  fever  and  pain, 

If  but  the  Gods  have  so  willed  it 
I  taste  that  wild  sweetness  again  ! " 


23 


Then  answered  the  Gods,  of  their  mercy, 
"We  give  thee  thy  thirst  and  thy  love, 

But  seek  not  the  water  of  Dirce  — 

For  thy  Youth  was  the  sweetness  thereof. 


24 


THE  DARK 

The  silver  sickle  went  a-reaping ; 

We  saw  its  blade,  so  bright,  so  keen, 
But  not  the  sheaves  in  shadow  sleeping 

In  the  high  field  of  Night  unseen. 


SHE  came  and  rocked  me  in  her  arms, 
And  low  she  spake  :  "  I  am  thy  Mother, 
With  lullabies  and  fending  charms 

That  are  for  thee  and  for  no  other." 
Then  answered  I  :  "  Oft  groping  have  I  felt 
Thy  touch,  and  at  thy  knees  would  fain  have  knelt. 

Next  spake  she  level  with  mine  ear, 

And  sportively  entreated  me  : 
u  Twin-Sister  could  not  be  more  near 

That  ever  I  have  been  to  thee." 
To  this  I  answered  :  "  Sister,  more  than  twin, 
My  bosom-mate  from  childhood  thou  hast  been." 

But  closer  still  she  drew  —  in  sooth, 

So  close  my  poor  heart  beat  for  two  : 
"  I  am  thy  Lover,  first  in  youth  — 

That  lover  false  —  and  thou  so  true  !  " 
Then  made  I  answer  through  a  world  of  tears, 
"  But  this  it  was  that  so  enriched  my  years." 

25 


From  in  myself  she  spake  at  last : 

"I  am  The  Dark  —  am  all  thou  art; 
And  I,  The  Dark,  am  all  thou  hast, 

Both  out  and  in  —  thy  soul,  thy  heart. 
Yet  all  the  stars  are  mine  to  give  to  thee." 
Then  answered  I,  "Thy  stars  make  song  in  me." 


The  silver  sickle  went  a-re aping ; 

We  saw  its  blade,  so  bright,  so  keen, 
But  not  the  sheaves  in  shadow  sleeping 

In  the  high  field  of  Night  unseen. 


26 


THE  UNDERLAND 


i 


T  is  so  glad  a  land, 

It  is  so  sad  a  land, 
Where  now  I  go  to  make  my  fast  retreat. 
Once  I  but  tarried  there, 
Now  I  have  carried  there 
All  my  soul's  treasure  and  will  build  my  seat. 

It  is  so  sad  a  land, 

It  is  so  glad  a  land, 
I  know  not  if  it  be  more  sad  or  glad. 

No  word  is  spoken  there, 

That  can  be  broken  there, 
And  —  grief  or  joy,  we  have  what  we  have  had. 

A  blaze  is  on  the  hearth, 
It  plays  upon  the  hearth 

And  on  the  brows  of  some  that  sit  thereby. 
It  leaps  for  aye  the  same 
It  keeps  for  aye  the  same  — 

Flitting  from  laughing  lip  to  speaking  eye.' 

Outside  a  garden  blooms, 
In  pride  a  garden  blooms ; 

Nowhere  so  deep  the  grass,  so  bright  the  rose. 
No  blessed  hour  departs, 
Nor  leaf  nor  flower  departs  — 

But  never  any  bud  can  there  unclose. 

27 


I  go  to  hide  me  there, 

Since  none  will  chide  me  there, 

And  say,  "  Get  hence,  for  here  no  part  thou  hast.: 
It  is  the  only  place,  — 
This  peopled,  lonely  place, 

That  is  my  own  —  and  it  is  called  The  Past. 


To  you  so  lately  gone, 
So  sternly,  straightly  gone, 

Without  a  word,  without  a  waving  hand  — 
To  you  I  send  this  song, 
And  you,  befriend  this  song, 

Who  make  great  brightness  in  The  Underworld  ! 


28 


THE  HOUSE 

F  WAS  leaving  the  House  behind, 
•*•     And  it  said,  as  1  crossed  the  sill  : 
"  Because  he  is  gone  from  me, 
Forever  and  ever  gone, 
You  too  must  be  forth  and  away  ! 
You  cannot  bear  me,  you  cry  — 
The  listening  —  the  silence  —  the  void  ! 
But  how  shall  I  bear  myself, 
Who  cannot  arise  and  go, 
And  be  free  of  the  silence  that  asks, 
That  listens,  and  asks  again  — 
And  be  free  of  the  void  that  aches  ? 

"  How  shall  I  bear  myself? 

As  full  of  sweet  memories,  I, 

As  of  honey  the  autumn  hive  — 

But  the  sweet  of  my  honey  stings  ! 

Where  now  are  his  hat  and  his  coat 

That  hung  in  the  hall  by  the  door, 

And  the  good  cane  leaned  beside, 

That  was  used  to  the  feel  of  his  hand, 

That  was  warm  with  the  clasp  of  his  hand  ? 

They  are  taken  and  hidden  away ; 

But  the  place  where  they  were  still  asks  : 

c  Why  must  I  lose  what  was  mine?' 

29 


uAnd  the  pen  that  none  other  might  touch, 

And  the  letter  half  written,  and  left ; 

And  the  book  at  the  head  of  the  bed, 

Where  the  late  lamp  loved  to  shine 

(The  book  that  was  old  and  good), 

With  the  leaves  that  he  slowly  turned 

With  the  leaves  that  he  loved  the  best ; 

And  the  reading-glass  slipped  between  ! 

They  are  all  put  by,  put  by ; 

But  I  know,  though  they  hide,  where  they  are 

I  am  full  of  keen  memories,  I, 

As  of  arrows  the  saint  in  the  shrine  ! 

"How  shall  I  bear  myself?" 

Said  the  House  that  was  left  behind. 

"How  shall  I  bear  myself?" 

Said  the  haunting  Voice  of  the  House, 

As  over  the  sill  I  passed. 

And  the  Voice  was  the  silence  that  asks, 

That  listens,  and  asks  again; 

And  its  Eyes  were  the  windows  that  gazed, 

That  gazed  at  me  long  and  hard, 

And  wondered  that  I  went  forth. 

"  Nevertheless,  O  House, 

I  must  leave  you  —  must  go,"  I  said. 


30 


INCLUSION 

I"  SHALL  not  care  if  I  shall  live  no  more, 
-^     As  men  know  life,  as  I  myself  have  known. 
The  waves  that  race  so  hard  to  reach  the  shore  — 
They  break,  and  backward  to  their  deep  are  thrown. 
They  are  not,  yet  they  are  —  become  the  Sea.  .  .  . 
I  lose  my  life,  but  Life  will  not  lose  me  ! 

I  shall  not  care  if  I  shall  love  no  more, 

As  time  knows  love,  and,  ah,  as  I  have  known  ! 

The  fire  goes  out  and  open  lies  the  door 

When  summer's  high  ascendant  sun  has  shone.  .  .  , 

My  little  fire  of  love  burned  bright,  burned  free  — 

How  greater,  midst  the  Sun  of  Love  to  be  ! 


31 


"YOU  HAVE  COME  BACK" 

^  VT'OU  have  come  back,"  they  say  to  me, 

•••       The  people  of  the  old,  old  town. 
In  speech  I  with  their  speech  agree, 
But  doubts  have  I  that  will  not  down. 

For  more  and  more  to  me  it  seems 
That  both  the  village  and  its  folk, 

Whom  I  so  oft  have  seen  in  dreams 
(Have  seen,  then  lingeringly  awoke)  — 

Have  but  returned,  dream-wise,  again, 

And  as  a  vision  will  go  by. 
So  to  make  answer  I  am  fain, 

k'Tis  you  who  have  come  back  —  not  I." 


32 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  FORGOTTEN  THINGS 

HERE  is  a  pity  in  forgotten  things, 
-*•        Banished  the  heart  they  can  no  longer  fill, 
Since  restless  Fancy,  spreading  swallow  wings, 
Must  seek  new  pleasure  still. 

There  is  a  patience,  too,  in  things  forgot ; 

They  wait,  they  find  the  portal  long  unused, 
And,  knocking  there,  it  shall  refuse  them  not  — 

Nor  aught  shall  be  refused  ! 

Ah,  yes  !  though  we,  unheeding  years  on  years, 
In  alien  pledges  spend  the  heart's  estate ; 

They  bide  some  blessed  moment  of  quick  tears  — 
Some  moment  without  date  — 

Some  gleam  on  flower  or  leaf  or  beaded  dew, 
Some  tremble  at  the  ear,  of  memoried  sound 

Of  mother-song :  they  seize  the  slender  clew  — 
The  old  loves  gather  round  ! 

When  that  which  lured  us  once  now  lureth  not, 
But  the  tired  hands  their  gathered  dross  let  fall, 

This  is  the  triumph  of  the  things  forgot  — 
To  hear  the  tired  heart  call ! 

33 


And  they  are  with  us  at  Life's  farthest  reach, 
A  light  when  into  shadow  all  else  dips, 

As,  in  the  stranger's  land,  their  native  speech 
Returns  to  dying  lips  ! 


34 


THE  OVERFLOW 

~^HE  flood-tide  sets  into  the  stream, 

That  then  fills  up  its  grassy  banks ; 
But  never  does  the  rivulet  dream 
How  to  the  sea  it  oweth  thanks  ! 

My  little  loves  are  fed,  each  one, 
By  a  great  Love  they  cannot  know : 

Upbrimmed,  they  ripple  in  the  sun  — 
They  have  my  full  heart's  overflow. 


35 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  LAWS 

F^HIS    from    that    soul    incorrupt    whom 
•*•        Athens  had  doomed  to  the  death, 
When    Crito    brought    promise    of    freedom : 

"Vainly  thou  spendest  thy  breath  ! 
Dost  remember  the  wild  Corybantes  ?  feel  they 

the  knife  or  the  rod  ? 
Heed   they  the  fierce  summer  sun,   the  frost, 

or  winterly  flaws?  — 
If  any  entreat  them,  they  answer,    4  We  hear 

but  the  flutes  of  the  God  ! ' 

"  So  even  am  I,  O  my  Crito  !     Thou  pleadest 

a  losing  cause ! 
Thy  words  are  as  sound  without  import  —  I 

hear  but  the  Voice  of  the  Laws, 
And,  know  thou  !  the  Voice  of  the  Laws  is  to 

me  as  the  flutes  of  the  God." 

Thus  spake  that  soul  incorrupt.    And  wherever, 

since  hemlock  was  quaffed, 
A    man    has    stood    forth    without    fear  —  has 

chosen  the  dark  deep  draught  — 
Has  taken  the  lone  one  way,  nor  the  path  of 

dishonor  has  trod, 
Behold  !    he,  too,  hears  but  the  Voice  of  the 

Laws,  the  flutes  of  the  God. 

36 


IN  THE  LILAC-RAIN 

A  LL  in  the  lilac-rain 
•*•  ^     Tender  and  sweet, 
Brushing  the  window-pane 
Sudden  —  and  fleet ! 

Came  the  dear  wraith  of  her 

Out  of  lost  Mays  — 
(Ah,  but  the  faith  of  her, 

True  to  old  ways  !) 

Scarcely  her  face  I  knew, 

Dim  in  the  wet ; 
Only  her  eyes  of  blue 

Who  could  forget ! 
Hands  full  of  lilacs,  too  — 

Lilac  crowned,  yet ! 

These  were  the  flowers  she  loved 

In  the  far  years ; 
These  were  the  showers  she  loved  - 

Light  as  her  tears  ! 
These  were  the  hours  she  loved  — 

Hope  chasing  fears ! 


Veiled  in  the  lilac-rain, 
Comes  she  —  and  goes. 

37 


Sun  through  the  clouds  again, 
Fresh  the  wind  blows. 

Mine,  a  swift  pleasure-pain 
None  other  knows 


38 


OLD  SIGHT 

"^HOU  never  more  shalt  see  so  clear 
-*•        As  formerly  the  things  a-near, 
As  when  thy  two  round  hills  of  sight 
Caught  all  there  was  of  heaven's  light. 

In  youth  thine  eye,  so  true,  so  keen, 
One  leaf  among  its  brethren  green, 
Keeping  its  dance  upon  the  tree, 
It  was  thy  pure  delight  to  see. 

One  blade  of  grass  would  catch  thine  eye, 
One  rose,  'mid  roses  climbing  high. 
Now,  know  them  lovely  in  the  mass, 
But  singly  let  them  blend  and  pass. 

Thine  eyes  are  old,  and  they  are  tired ; 
No  longer  be  of  them  required 
The  labor  they  were  wont  to  do  : 
Ease  them,  as  servants  tried  and  true. 

Still  shall  they  serve,  if  thou  art  wise, 
With  longer  span  of  earth  and  skies ; 
But  know,  all  little  things  that  be, 
All  trivial  lines,  must  fade  from  thee. 


39 


And  if  the  face  of  thine  own  friend 
In  the  dense  human  stream  shall  blend, 
Thine  oldened  sight,  like  arrow  fine, 
Pierces  some  farther,  heavenly  sign  ! 

And  dimmer  still,  in  life's  decline, 
Things  near  thy  vision  shall  divine ; 
But  there  shall  be  no  veil,  no  bar, 
Between  thine  eyes  and  things  afar  ! 


40 


THE  PASSER-BY 

STEP  lightly  across  the  floor, 
And  somewhat  more  tender  be. 

There  were  many  that  passed  my  door, 

Many  that  sought  after  me. 

I  gave  them  the  passing  word  — 

Ah,  why  did  I  give  thee  more  ? 

I  gave  thee  what  could  not  be  heard, 

What  had  not  been  given  before ; 

The  beat  of  my  heart  I  gave.  .  .  . 

And  I  give  thee  this  flower  on  my  grave. 

My  face  in  the  flower  thou  mayst  see. 
Step  lightly  across  the  floor. 


41 


THE  YOUNG  HEART  IN  AGE 

ET  fall  the  ashen  veil 
-*~-'     On  locks  of  ebon  sheen  ; 
And  let  Time's  furrowing  tale 
On  once-smooth  brows  be  seen. 

And  let  my  eyes  forego 

Their  once-keen  shaft  of  sight ; 
Let  hands  and  feet  not  know 

Their  former  skill  or  might. 

Take  all  of  outward  grace, 

Ye  Aging  Powers  —  but  hold  ! 

Touch  not  the  inner  place, 
Let  not  my  heart  be  old  ! 

Then,  Youth,  to  me  repair ; 

And  be  my  soothed  guest ; 
All  things  with  you  I  share 

Save  one,  —  that  wild  unrest ! 


42 


EVOE! 

"  Many  are  the  wand-bearers,  few  are  the  true  bacchanals." 

I 

IV/TANY  are  the  wand-bearers; 
-*•*-*•     Their  windy  shouts  I  hear, 
Along  the  hillside  vineyard, 

And  where  the  wine  runs  clear ; 
They  show  the  vine-leaf  chaplet, 

The  ivy-wreathen  spear. 
But  the  god,  the  true  lacchus, 

He  does  not  hold  them  dear. 

II 

Many  are  the  wand-bearers, 

And  bravely  are  they  clad  ; 
Yes,  they  have  all  the  tokens 

His  early  lovers  had. 
They  sing  the  master  passions, 

Themselves  unsad,  unglad  ; 
And  the  god,  the  true  lacchus  — 

He  knows  they  are  not  mad  ! 

Ill 

Many  are  the  wand-bearers; 

The  fawn-skin  bright  they  wear ; 

43 


There  are  among  them  maenads 
That  rave  with  unbound  hair. 

They  toss  the  harmless  firebrand  — 
It  spends  itself  in  air : 

And  the  god,  the  true  lacchus, 
He  smiles  —  and  does  not  care. 

IV 

Many  are  the  wand-bearers. 

And  who  (ye  ask)  am  I? 
One  who  was  born  in  madness, 

"  Evoe  !  "  my  first  cry  — 
Who  dares,  before  your  spear-points, 

To*  challenge  and  defy  ; 
And  the  god,  the  true  lacchus, 

So  keep  me  till  I  die ! 


Many  are  the  wand-bearers. 

I  bear  with  me  no  sign ; 
Yet,  I  was  mad,  was  drunken, 

Ere  yet  I  tasted  wine ; 
Nor  bleeding  grape  can  slacken 

The  thirst  wherewith  I  pine ; 
And  the  god,  the  true  lacchus 

Hears  now  this  song  of  mine. 


44 


A  SONG  ABOUT  A  SONG 

A  SONG  about  a  song 
That  lives  within  my  heart, 
There  only — all  day  long 
It  sings  aloof,  apart, 

More  solitary-sweet 

Than  rare  aeolian  string 
That  waits  but  to  repeat 

What  winds  from  Heaven  bring. 

Oh,  never  ask  the  theme  ! 

For  if  I  say,  "  'T  is  Joy," 
Too  much  its  closes  seem 

What  Sorrow  would  employ. 

And  if  I  say,  '"T  is  Grief - 
'T  is  Grief,  and  Grief  alone," 

Comes  Joy,  like  very  thief, 
To  make  the  theme  his  own  ! 

A  song  about  a  song.  .  .  . 

But  had  I  perfect  art 
To  voice  it  clear  and  strong, 

It  would  forsake  my  heart. 

45 


I  will  not  do  that  wrong : 
The  song  is  in  my  heart, 

My  heart  is  in  the  song  — 
I  know  them  not  apart ! 


46 


THE  GOING  DOWN 

(PERSEPHONE) 

OING  down  among  the  shadows,  in  the 
ever  shortening  days, 

She  has  many  going  with  her  through  the  hol 
low  sunken  ways, 

With  the  sighing,  sighing,  sighing  of  the  wind 
that  round  her  plays. 

All    that   yet   of   beauty    lingers,   in    the   ever 

shortening  days, 
Listens  for  her  warning  footfall,  strains  to  meet 

her  fateful  gaze  : 
Once  her   glance    it   hath   encountered    in   its 

place  no  more  it  stays. 

Is  it  some  late  flower  that  ventures,  in  the  ever 

shortening  days  — 
Flower  faint  blushing  on  the   bramble,  violet 

or  primrose  strays, 
Truant   blooms  of  quince  or  apple,  with  the 

grace  of  vanished  Mays? 

If  that  flower  her  garment  brushes,  in  the  ever 
shortening  days, 

47 


Parent  stem  cannot  withhold    it,   in  her  path 

it  lightly  sways, 
With  the  sighing,  sighing,  sighing  of  the  wind 

that  round  her  plays. 

Lingers  still  in  greenless  thicket,   in  the  ever 

shortening  days, 
One   lone    singer    of    the    choir    ceaseless    in 

sweet  summer's  praise?  — 
Whist  the  singer  at  her  passing!  some  unheard 

voice  it  obeys. 

And  it  spreads  its  wings   belated   in  the  ever 

shortening  days ; 
Henceforth,  nor  at  morn  nor  even  sound   its 

piping  roundelays. 
For  the  bird  has  fluttered  with  her  where  not 

noontide  sends  its  rays  ! 

You,  O  Flower  of  Mortal,  you,  too,  in  the  ever 
shortening  days, 

Guard,  O  shepherd  youths  and  maidens,  care 
less  in  the  dancing  maze, 

Guard,  lest  one  of  you  —  the  loveliest !  for  her 
kingdom  she  purveys. 

Yet  let  none  cry  out  upon  her,  in  the  ever 
shortening  days; 

48 


The  bereaved  and  the  bereaver — never,  never 

she  betrays  ! 
Springtime  comer,  Autumn  goer,  such  the  price 

that  all  life  pays. 

She  —  the  darling  of  Demeter,  in  the  ever  short 
ening  days. 

She  has  many  going  with  her  through  the 
hollow  sunken  ways, 

With  the  sighing,  sighing,  sighing  of  the  wind 
that  round  her  plays. 


49 


SNOW-BURDEN 

"^HEY  bear  the  burden  of  the  snow  — 

They  bear  it  with  a  patient  grace, 
The  drooping  trees  !     Yet  well  they  know 
A  melting  hour  comes  on  apace. 

Ah,  if  but  Time,  that  crowns  me  white, 
An  equal  clemency  would  show, 

Then,  I  some  soft,  mild  day  or  night, 
Would  drop  the  burden  of  the  snow  ! 


50 


THE  ONLOOKERS 

/  I  ^HEY  are  withdrawn  —  and  they  are  near; 

No  eyes  —  they  see  ;  no  ears  —  they  hear 
They  speak  together,  without  sound  — 
They  Who  Look  On,  while  Time  runs  round  ! 

I  know  not  where  their  place,  their  stand, 
Nor  of  the  distance  that  is  spanned, 
When  they  their  influence  impart  — 
They  Who  Look  On  and  ease  my  heart. 

They  ease  my  heart,  for  they  can  take 
From  Life  all  fever,  all  heart-ache ; 
In  any  crowd  or  turmoil  rude, 
They  Who  Look  On  make  Quietude. 

And  sweetly  do  they  send  reproof 
To  turn  me  from  world-pride  aloof ; 
Nor  any  scorn  can  strike,  nor  hate  — 
They  Who  Look  On  so  guard  my  state  ! 

Not  safer  was  the  hero  caught 
In  the  bright  veil  Love  round  him  wrought 
To  bear  him  from  the  press  of  foes  — 
They  Who  Look  On  thus  round  me  close. 

51 


I  deem  they  will  abide  with  me, 
Perchance,  apparent  they  will  be 
When  I  shall  breathe  my  last  of  breath.   .  .  . 
They  Who  Look  On  have  looked  past  Death. 


52 


"WHY  WILT  THOU  VISIT  IN  DREAMS?" 

/  questioned  them  narrowly,  all, 

If  any  went  out  or  in  : 

And  they  answered  me,  wondering,  all, 

That  no  one  went  out  or  in. 


TT  7HY  wilt  thou  visit  in  dreams  ?- 

Once  with  a  little  harp 
Held  up  in  thy  hands  to  play, 
And  thy  down-smiling  eyes  on  my  face. 
But  when  I  would  raise  me  to  hear, 
There  was  only  the  wind  so  lone  — 
And  the  wind  was  thy  harp  and  thou. 

Why  wilt  thou  visit  in  dreams  ? 
Once  with  a  tendrilled  wreath 
Hung  over  thy  rounded  arm, 
As  though  thou  wert  fain  to  dance. 
But  when  I  would  watch  thee  at  dance, 
The  vine  at  the  casement  swung  low  — 
And  the  vine  was  thy  wreath  and  thou. 

Why  wilt  thou  visit  in  dreams? 
Once  with  a  lamp  of  pure  light 
Wherein  things  hidden  were  clear. 
But  when  I  would  walk  by  thy  light, 

53 


Only  the  westering  moon  — 

The  low  moon  at  my  window,  looked  in  — 

And  the  moon  was  thy  lamp  and  thou. 

Why  wilt  thou  visit  in  dreams? 

Once  with  a  cup  that  o'erflowed 

With  a  draught  that  could  heal,  could  save 

But  when  I  would  whisper,  "  I  thirst ! " 

Only  the  fountain  I  heard, 

The  laugh  of  the  fountain  by  night  — 

And  the  fountain  was  thou  and  thy  cup. 


/  questioned  them  narrowly,  all, 

If  any  went  out  or  in  : 

And  they  answered  me,  wondering,  all, 

That  no  one  went  out  or  in. 


54 


THE  EMPTY  ROOM 

f  FOUND  me  standing  at  your  door, 
•*•     Beloved  !  having  come  in  sleep, 
Dreaming  I  yet  had  watch  to  keep, 
And  all  was  as  it  was  before, 
When  the  dim  hours  my  care  outwore. 

Your  little  room  so  very  still, 
Beloved  !  still,  and  sweet  with  you ; 
My  senses,  tranced,  such  balm  indrew  ! 
Yet  my  feet  stayed  upon  the  sill, 
For  something  held  my  clouded  will. 

The  moonlight  lay  along  the  floor, 
And  —  soft  as  is  the  swan's  soft  breast  — 
On  your  smooth  pillow,  aye  unpressed, 
Beloved  !  —  moonlight  and  no  more  ! 
I  waked  and  found  me  at  your  door. 


55 


FRIENDS  WITH  THE  WORLD 

THE  World  has  played  fair  with  me 
(And  I  with  the  World,  I  trust !)  - 
Broken  no  pact  nor  plight ; 

No  wrong  but  Love  could  adjust; 

Or,  if  fight  we  must, 
We  ever  shook  hands  with  a  will, 
At  the  end  of  the  fight. 

If  a  Better  World  there  be  — 

Let  be  !     I  can  only  say, 
Here  I  have  found  delight 

That  steads  me  upon  my  way, 
Going  out  with  day.  .  .  . 
I  have  been  good  friends  with  you,  World 
Good  night,  good  night ! 


56 


TO  RETURN! 

LOVE  me  now,  and  love  me  aye  — 
Life  is  but  a  passing  day ! 
( But  the  day  is  still  reborn. ) 
Love  me  now,  and  love  me  aye, 
When  all  lives  have  passed  away  — 
On  some  fair  Eternal  Morn  ! 

Thou  shalt  pass,  and  I  shall  pass 
Like  the  raindrops  on  the  glass, 

Shared  between  the  sun  and  wind  ! 
Thou  and  I,  we  onward  pass 
To  return  !  —  but  we,  alas  ! 

How  shall  we  each  other  find  ? 

Thou  and  I  —  to  come  again  ! 
Shall  my  day  be  on  the  wane 

When  thy  day  is  only  young  ? 
Thou  and  I  —  to  come  again  ! 
But  shall  one  land  hold  us  twain  ? 

Wilt  thou  even  speak  my  tongue? 

Thou  and  I  —  to  come  and  go, 
Know  each  other  —  or  not  know, 

Flung  together  —  flung  apart ! 
Thou  and  I  —  to  come  and  go, 
Life,  like  leaves,  behind  us  strow  — 

Shall  I  find  thee  where  thou  art  ? 


57 


We  shall  pass  —  shall  we  return? 
Shall  the  soul  its  own  discern 

When  the  myriad  lives  are  fled  ? 
We  shall  pass.  .  .  .  Ere  we  return, 
Oh,  to  set  some  Lamp  to  burn 

On  the  dim  ways  we  must  tread  ! 


58 


of  it  all.   .   .   .   And  now  1  we  d'. 
How  little  there  was  that  touched  me  nearly, 
Though  1  hated  (how  idly  !  )  and  loved  (how  dearly  ! ), 
Though  I  deemed  this  great,  and  judged  that  small ; 
Now  the  bounds  I  set  are  a  crumbled  wall — 
Out  of  it  —  out  of  it  all ! 

Out  of 'the  years  that  lagged,  or  hasted, 
Out  of  the  power  of  the  griefs  that  wasted, 
Out  of  the  sway  of  the  joys  that,  half-tasted, 
Leave  the  heart  sick,  that  so  soon  they  can  pall — 
Out  of  the  drive,  the  tumult,  the  brawl, 
Out  of  it  —  out  of  it  all ! 

Out  of  it  all.   .   .   .   And  the  world  receding, 
Who,  or  what,  is  there  whither  leading  ? 
Through  a  space  unknown,  I,  unknown,  am  speeding, 
And  the  fashions  that  were,  away  from  me  fall.   .   .   . 
What  was  that  word  I  would  fain  recall?  — 
"  Out  of  it— out  of  it  all!" 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

A  New  Year's  Masque  (poems),  Boston,  1885. 

The  Round  Year  (prose),  Boston,  1886. 

Lyrics  and  Sonnets,  Boston,  1887. 

The  Inverted  Torch,  Boston,  1890. 

Fair  Shadow  Land,  Boston,  1893. 

In  Sunshine  Land,  Boston,  1895. 

In  the  Young  World,  Boston,  1895. 

A  Winter  Swallow,  New  York,  1896. 

The  Dancers,  Boston,  1903. 

Cassia  and  Other  Verse,  Boston,  1905. 

The  Children  of  Christmas,  Boston,  1908. 

The  Guest  at  the  Gate,  Boston,  1909. 

The  Flower  from  the  Ashes,  Portland,  1915. 


FOUR  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  COPIES  OF 
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THIS  BOOK  IS  DUlToN  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


expiration  of  loan  period. 


AUG  3 


MAY  1'4 1953  Lff 


50m-7,'16 


Flower  from   the   ashes 


328436 


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